Never Too Late
by Kizzia
Summary: Sherlock didn't do any experimenting at uni – well, not with sex, anyway - and it never occurred to him he might have missed out. Until, that is, a case casts a few things in a different light. Good job he's got John, really. Sheer Johnlock PWP - you have been warned.


**Disclaimer:** Don't own, don't claim, not making any money.

**Author's Note:** This was written for the Come_at_once 24 hour porn challenge last year. I have no idea why I didn't post it on here then. The prompt was "College is a time for experimenting". However, I took the slight liberty of replacing college with university, mainly because I suspect the only college Sherlock ever set foot in was the Roland Kerr Further Education College and Jeff Hope certainly doesn't make me think of sex!

* * *

**Never Too Late**

John swallows somewhat dryly, then runs his tongue over his lips. The sight of Sherlock, spread naked across his bed and staring up at him with sheer, unfettered want, is almost enough to take his breath away.

It's certainly enough to make him scramble off the bed and shuck the remainder of his own clothing. He drops his jeans and pants next to the discarded heap of Sherlock's disguise and can't help grinning down at the pile of garments. After all, they _were_ the catalyst for this delightful performance …

He'd thought he was dreaming when he'd woken properly that morning. He'd sort of heard the ping of a text tone earlier but when Sherlock hadn't shaken him awake he'd assumed it wasn't a case and - still recovering from the week long hunt for a serial poisoner that had only been successfully concluded the afternoon before - burrowed back into the duvet for a lie-in. Apparently he'd been wrong, given the apparition that was now crouching by their bed repeating his name.

'Sh-Sherlock?' He stuttered, getting a huff in response. He shouldn't have asked, he'd know that voice and those eyes anywhere, but … Sherlock looked so young! About eighteen or nineteen, face pale and guileless under a brown and green woollen beanie that went quite well with the khaki zip hoodie that was currently swamping his slender frame. It was the ends of his curls popping out from under the hat that really made the difference though, John thought as he pushed himself into a sitting position; they added an air of innocence to him that gave credence to the wide-eyed expression John would otherwise dismiss as fake in an instant.

'Get dressed.' Sherlock unceremoniously dumped a bundle of John's clothing in his lap. 'You can buy breakfast when we get there.'

'Where is there?' John started to ask but Sherlock was already leaving the room and John's attention was diverted by the sight of Sherlock's bottom half. A bottom half that was encased in the tightest jeans John had ever had the pleasure of seeing him in. A pair of gleaming white trainers completely the ensemble.

'Blimey,' John muttered, sliding out of bed and taking his clothes to the bathroom. 'Have I woken up in nineteen ninety nine or something?'

'Honestly John, if you think I ever voluntarily dressed like this you need your head examining.' Sherlock stuck his head round the bathroom door. 'It's bad enough that Mycroft has involved himself in this case personally and thus will be aware of this appalling outfit, without you taking the piss as well.'

'I wasn't taking the piss,' John started to say but Sherlock was gone again, with the parting shot of: 'Less talking, more dressing. If I'm right, which I am, we can get this whole debacle over with in a couple of hours. _If_ we leave in the next fifteen minutes.'

Sherlock was definitely right, John conceded, an hour and a half later. He was sat out on the terrace of the café in Russell Square Gardens, picking at his second croissant and working his way thought a large coffee. He looked for all the world like a man enjoying a relaxing day off and idly watching the world go by. A group of uni students, most of whom were girls, giggled and laughed as they sat and studied on the warm grass on the opposite side of the path to John's table.

Sherlock was lounging at the edge of the group, looking completely in his element and very unlike himself; a scruffy bag at his side bulged with books and papers and he'd unzipped his hoodie to reveal a black t-shirt that declaimed his allegiance to a band John had never heard of and was, amazingly, an even tighter fit than his jeans. He was smiling brightly at the two girls sitting either side of him and speaking in faltering English. The French accent he was employing for that purpose made John want to do things to him which were most certainly not appropriate for any public place.

It was clearly having a similar effect on the girls; Sherlock was practically wearing them they'd got so close, fluttering their eyelashes and flicking their hair in what they seemed to think was a come-hither manner. When one of them ran a hand up Sherlock's leg and leant in to whisper in his ear, John had to take a gulp of coffee and turn away. Sherlock would kill him if he broke their cover and he knew his expression had hardened into a vicious glare that was far from appropriate given that he wasn't supposed to even know "Jacques", much less give a flying fuck as to who was manhandling him.

Biting the inside of his mouth he directed his gaze toward the fountain at the centre of the gardens while he struggled to compose himself. The fact he could hear every word, thanks to the earpiece he was wearing and the feed from Sherlock's phone - which was balanced on top of his bag, in plain sight, and transmitting the entire conversation - wasn't helping. Especially as he knew half the Yarders, along with Mycroft and several of Mycroft's staff were also listening as Sherlock was willingly seduced by Pinky and Perky, or whatever the hell those little tarts were called.

'Stand by.' Greg's voice was too loud in his ear and he was grateful that a pigeon chose that exact moment to attempt to land on his table, giving him a reason to jump. 'We're going in the minute they mention Osborne.'

Within half an hour the girls - who should have known better than to talk about things they weren't meant to know in front of handsome strangers, given they were both daughters of government ministers - were well on their way to a police station, to have the life frightened out of them by either Mycroft or one of his minions. The commotion their arrest had caused had died down and the park was once again peaceful and cheerful. Well, cheerful except for Sherlock, who had flopped into the chair next to him, scowling darkly.

'They didn't need us for that,' he growled, snagging the remains of John's croissant and dispatching it in three bites. 'Mycroft just wanted to have me make a fool of myself in front of you.'

'Well ... you're right that I wasn't necessary,' John said, trying to keep his eyes on Sherlock's face rather than anywhere lower. 'But they did need you. No one else could have pulled off the uni student act the way you did. And you certainly didn't look like a fool at all. You looked …' He paused, reached up and tucked an errant curl back into its woollen prison. 'You _look_ … fantastic, actually. And you fitted in so well it was a little disconcerting. I'm wondering if I should be worried about being replaced by a younger model. After all, it wasn't just team flirt who were interested. I heard that lad you spoke to first suggesting you and he "did a bit of experimenting".

'You're an idiot,' Sherlock murmured, but his scowl disappeared as he captured John's wrist and rested his fingers on the pulse point. His eyes widened as he registered the elevated beat, roaming John's face for confirmation that it did, indeed, mean that he liked what he saw. John allowed exactly what he thought about Sherlock's attire to show in his face and was rewarded by an almost shy grin that made him want to pounce on Sherlock there and then.

'I meant what I said to him,' Sherlock said, lowering his voice and letting a hint of accent to creep into the words. 'The only experimentation I was interested in doing at uni was the sort performed in a lab. Although …' He allowed his own eyes to sweep over John from head to toe, making the other man shiver pleasantly. 'If you'd been there I might have thought differently.'

'It's never too late,' John found himself answering, lacing their fingers together and pulling Sherlock to his feet, away from the tables that were rapidly filling with people taking an early lunch.

'I could take you home right now,' he said once they were out of anyone else's ear shot, 'and learn you all over again, millimetre by millimetre. Take my time. Take control and …' The rest of his plans were muffled as Sherlock pinned him to a tree and captured his lips with his own in an eager, if somewhat sloppy, kiss. When they pulled apart John realised Sherlock had completely re-adopted his student persona, face a glorious mix of desire, uncertainty and innocence.

A game, then. He could do that. He could most definitely do that.

'Are you sure you want this?' He said, gently cupping Sherlock's face in both his hands. 'Sure that you want to see what you've been missing. Sure that you want me to take you home, take you apart … and then take you.' His voice sounded husky even to his own ears.

'Yes, I … um …' Sherlock blinked and then he actually blushed, before ducking his head and pressing his body flush against John's. His next words were spoken into the crook of John's neck, as his hands roamed fretfully over John's warm, cotton covered chest. 'I've never … this will be my first time, but I'm sure. I want it. I want you, John.'

John couldn't get him into a cab fast enough ...

It's been almost two hours since they practically fell out of the cab and fumbled and groped their way up to John's bedroom. As he looks down at the glorious sight of the man he loves quivering with need underneath him, John thinks with a measure of pride that he's definitely made good on his promise thus far.

'Fuck, you're lovely,' he murmurs, leaning down to brush a kiss over Sherlock's swollen lips and then trailing the very tips of his fingers across flat plain of his belly.

'Oh God!' Sherlock's voice is a dark and shattered rumble, his knuckles turning stark white as he tightens his grip on the headboard and arches up, desperately, into the contact. '_Please_, John.'

'Not yet, love.' John smiles, gently pushing a damp curl off Sherlock's forehead. There are hectic spots of colour high on his cheekbones, his throat and chest are mottled with patches of dusky pink and every inch of him is covered in a sheen of sweat that turns his pale skin pearlescent in the glow of the afternoon sun.

'You're far too beautiful like this for me not to take my time, even if I'd not promised you I'd do so … No. Keep your hands up there.'

'T-touch me p-properly, then …' Sherlock gasps out, even as he obeys. 'Please, John, I need …'

'I know what you need,' John says as he snags the lube from the side table and clambers back onto the bed, insinuating himself between Sherlock's legs, and kneeling up, dragging his hands down Sherlock's inner thighs as he does so. Whatever retort Sherlock was about to make is lost to a moan that shakes his whole body and makes Irene's pornographic text tone sound amateur in comparison.

'Jesus, Sherlock,' John says shakily, leaning forward and bracketing Sherlock's shoulders with this hands as he drops his head to rest against Sherlock's neck. 'Do you have any idea how you sound?'

He doesn't wait for an answer, instead starting to work his mouth down the pale column of Sherlock's throat; taking tiny nips, licks and sucks which soon have Sherlock writhing beneath him, babbling a string of non-words when John reaches his collarbone and bites, hard. Then John's cursing too, the exaggerated curve of Sherlock's body as he bucks upward, pressing their cocks together; the accidental touch sending fire-bursts of need through his veins.

He's so hard it's actually starting to hurt, so how Sherlock - who's been stroked and licked and teased for all this time - is feeling is beyond him. Which is why, when Sherlock's arms band round him and try to pull him down into a proper embrace, he doesn't call him on letting go of the headboard. He does break away though, ignoring the spike of desire that Sherlock's plaintive mewl of loss sends pulsing deep into his belly.

'Hush now,' he says, shifting back and down, briefly catching a nipple between his teeth before feathering kisses down and onto the hot damp skin of the crease between Sherlock's leg and hip. 'Just let me play a little longer.'

When Sherlock's hands reach for his own cock, apparently on autopilot, John bats them away. 'Stop that, Sherlock. All you need to do is relax and let me sort everything out.'

'I _need_ to be touched,' Sherlock pants out, hands twisting frantically in the sheets. 'For the love of God, John! Touch me, fuck me, anything! I don't care. I just … I can't … I need more than this!'

'It's okay, I've got you. Everything's fine.' John clicks the cap of the lube open with one hand and strokes the other up and down Sherlock's side. He knows Sherlock isn't acting any more, isn't trying to play the virgin. The desperation in every line of his trembling body, the fact his pupils are so blown that his eyes look entirely black, not to mention the beads of pre-come falling onto his belly in an almost continual stream, tell John he's almost at breaking point.

John heaves in a shaky breath; Sherlock is like this because of him, is letting himself be taken to the brink because it is him doing the taking and _fuck_, if that isn't the most arrousing thing he's ever experienced. Kissing the top of one shaking knee, he coats his fingers with the clear gel and then says, 'Just relax, love. This is what you need, isn't it.'

Sherlock screws up his eyes and throws his head back as John's fingers begin to circle his hole, murmuring platitudes as he works on the tight ring of muscle. The instant he feels it starts to give he slips one finger in, teasing it in an out, a tiny bit deeper each time. Sherlock keens and then pushes into the contact, impaling himself right up to the second joint.

They both swear in unison, John gritting his teeth and allowing himself one swift touch of his own cock, which is now nearly as deep red as Sherlock's. Just one touch, just enough to take the edge off so he can concentrate. Then he pins Sherlock's hips to the bed with one firm hand and proceeds to work him open at an achingly slow pace, ignoring the whimpers and broken pleas pouring from Sherlock's lips.

By the time John's got three fingers inside him and is brushing his prostate with every slick and gentle slide Sherlock is an incoherent, gasping mess. Only the occasional 'John' lets him know that Sherlock hasn't completely lost the power of speech.

'Are you ready?' He asks, sliding his fingers out and watching Sherlock's torso tense at the loss of sensation. Sherlock opens his eyes, his gaze slightly dazed, and he nods feebly.

'Please.'

John doesn't need a second invitation, hissing involuntarily as he coats his neglected erection. Then he cradles Sherlock's arse in both hands, gives it a squeeze, lifts it up and slips slickly inside.

'Jesus, Sherlock. Fuck, you feel so good. So hot. So tight.'

All Sherlock can do is moan, wrapping his legs round John's waist and reaching for his shoulders, trying to get as much skin on skin contact as he can. John goes with it, sinking right down into the welcoming embrace and, bracing himself with his forearms, starts to thrust; long, deep rolls of his hips that send pleasure radiating through both their bodies.

Sherlock's mouth finds his own and they're kissing again, all tongues and teeth, gasps and groans. He's not going to last long, he knows. He's already lost control of his hips, the smooth rolling turned to quick, sharp thrusts that have Sherlock clinging to him and catching his breath so often it sounds like he's sobbing.

'John I … oh God, John, I'm almost there,' Sherlock manages to say as somehow, impossibly, he tightens his legs and pulls John closer still. John lets his instincts take over completely, slamming into Sherlock hard and fast until, with a wordless cry, Sherlock arches against him and starts to come; body frozen but cock jerking, juddering and spurting hot and wet between them.

And that, combined with the exquisite squeeze of Sherlock's muscles round John's cock, sends him tumbling into orgasm too.

'Sherlock I … Fuck I'm … Sherlock!'

He can't see, can barely breathe, as everything narrows down to the throbbing heat centred in his groin which implodes into white hot bliss.

When John comes back to himself he is collapsed on top of Sherlock, who is still completely out of it, eyes unfocused and mouth curved into a soft smile. As gently as he can he eases himself out of Sherlock's pliant body and then, every muscle protesting, he reaches for the flannel and wipes and starts to clean them both up.

He's almost done when long fingers run over his bicep and up into the hair at the nape of his neck.

'Welcome back, love,' he says, letting Sherlock tug him down for a brief kiss. 'Alright?'

'More than.'

John kisses him again and then manoeuvres them both so they are under the sheet rather than on top of it, with Sherlock cradled in his arms. He often wonders, in moments like these, when he can bury his nose in Sherlock's curls and just hold him, if this is actually his favourite part of sex. He doesn't wonder for long though, eyelids growing heavier with each breath they take together.

'You were right.' Sherlock's voice, though thick with exhaustion, still manages to sound like honey tastes. 'It's never too late to try things.'

John makes an affirmative noise, mouthing softly at his hair. Sherlock hums his appreciation and then they fall silent, both revelling in the lassitude and the closeness.

John's right on the cusp of sleep when he realises Sherlock's saying something.

'Wha?' he murmurs, lifting his head slightly.

'It's a good job we weren't at uni together,' Sherlock repeats, nuzzling into John's chest. 'We'd never have left our rooms and then you wouldn't have a degree either.'

John huffs a laugh and hugs Sherlock closer. 'You're probably right. Besides, I like us right here, right now, just the way we are.'

Sherlock's contented sigh seems to indicate he does, too.


End file.
